Archer listened to Harry Lyman and Frank Sawyer with increasing annoyance. Finally, he said, "So I am to understand that the man you've had in custody, the man against whom you assured me--assured me personally, sheriff--that you had an ironclad case, is fact innocent."

Harry thought: this would go a lot easier without the sour tone. But his own voice was level when he said, "Yes, Phil, that's what I'm saying."

Archer looked over the slips of paper. "And you have a witness who can identify the handwriting?"

"We have a witness who can confirm that Ledyard gave her that top note."

"That's not the same thing."

"Begging your pardon, Phil, but it darned near is. We got a witness here--" Harry pointed at Frank-- "who can say for sure it ain't this Heath's handwriting. Another witness who can say the notes come from Ledyard. I think that adds up to Ledyard writing the notes."

"That's one conclusion that can be drawn. It's not the only one."

Frank gave Harry a sympathetic look. He'd never had this hard a time with a prosecuting attorney.

Archer caught the look and said, "Tell me again, who is this man? And why have you allowed him to handle this evidence?"

Harry exhaled slowly. "Phil, this is Frank Sawyer, from Jubilee. He's a sheriff. Had this Heath fellow as a deputy down in Spanish Camp. They took down the Simpsons, do you remember?"

"I believe I was in school at the time. But this isn't Jubilee, sheriff."

"No, it ain't. But Frank here is a real experienced law man--more'n me, actually. And he found this evidence, Phil, that's why he handled it."

Archer said sharply, "Well, since you've given it to me, I'll have to present it. But you know that I can't suggest an outcome to the jury. And of course," he continued, his tone carefully neutral, "this will have to be public. I have no good reason for attempting to close this inquest."

Harry shrugged. "I got no problem with that. Hell, Victoria Barkley brought me the note."

Archer fingered the notes. "I think I need to talk with this Heath fellow. Get his statement. You say he can't testify tomorrow?"

"I don't think so, Phil. He was in a real bad way until this morning. I don't see him testifying."

Frank had been quiet through most of his. Now, though, he couldn't hang back. "Take his statement? If he ain't fit for testifyin I don't think he's fit to give a statement, either."

"I'll decide that. You say he's at the Merar residence?"

"Yes."

Archer frowned. "Sheriff, you should have gotten my permission before releasing him."

"Sorry, Phil," Harry said politely. "It was kinda late."

Archer sent for his court reporter, and the quartet trooped over to the Merar house, Archer determined, Harry a little bemused, and Frank furious. Mrs. Merar fluttered a little, Doc Merar harumphed a little, but they were let into the sickroom. Frank was relieved to see that Heath was finally awake, though he seemed very slow.

But perhaps it was just as well. If he'd been stronger he probably would have been angrier, and given Archer a harder time. Or he might have let slip that mad idea that the Barkleys had masterminded the whole thing. The story he told, without prompting, dovetailed with the evidence they'd found. He'd drunk heavily that Saturday night and Sunday morning; he'd played cards with a well-dressed stranger named Jim; he'd gotten a note that afternoon; he'd gone to the alley.

"And you took your gun," Archer suggested.

"Left it in the hotel. They thought--they thought I was a railroad gunman. Didn't want em to think that again."

"And when you got to the alley?"

"He was there." Heath swallowed. "Barkley. He was there. And that's all I remember."

"No one else was there at the time?"

"Nobody I seen. It was pretty dark."

Archer frowned. It fit well enough. He was almost disappointed. To his reporter, he said, "You've got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Mr.--Thomson, is it? If you'll just sign these pages, we'll leave you."

Slowly, carefully, Heath put his name to the close-written pages. Archer looked it over intently. The signature looked nothing like the handwriting on the notes. Archer sighed.

Once out of the Merar house, Frank said, "So you see Ledyard's the one you're looking for."

"I'll present all of the evidence," Archer said.

Jarrod reached home late that night. His ride home had been a tormented one. He could not shake two ideas: Leah's son was his father's son, and that son was a murderer. Heath's very existence showed up some unpleasant facts about Tom Barkley. What did Heath's actions show about his brothers? If my brother is a murderer....He tried to focus his mind on practical solutions--what could be done to soften Heath's likely fate. And if something could be done--should it be done?

Victoria was still up, looking weary and drawn. The haggard look on Jarrod's face told her only too well what he'd found in Strawberry. "So," she said quietly, "he is your father's son, isn't he?"

Jarrod, pouring himself a large whiskey, hesitated. "I didn't find any actual proof. Certainly the people closest to his mother believe it. This woman--Rachel is her name--claims there was a letter from Father to Leah. That's her name, Leah Thomson." The name provoked no reaction from Victoria. "She claims that Heath has the letter. But of course he didn't. Perhaps the letter doesn't really exist."

Victoria shrugged. "Perhaps it's been lost. I take it you're not convinced."

"No," Jarrod said, "I'm convinced. I was before I went, though I couldn't tell you just why. Certainly I found nothing in Strawberry to contradict that belief, even if what I did find doesn't offer much support."

She had been convinced, too, and yet Jarrod's troubled acceptance was a fresh hurt. Convinced, yes, but acceptance would be a struggle for some time, and peace was a long way off.

Jarrod said, "What do you want to do about him?"

"What your father would have wanted."

"No," Jarrod said quickly, "I mean about his legal situation. About--about the murder charge."

Victoria blinked. So much had happened the last two days; easy to forget Jarrod knew nothing. She told him, briefly, about Sawyer's discoveries. "So it seems that meeting was engineered by Ledyard--and he's the one that did the shooting."

Jarrod felt such relief he had to sit down, and heavily. He gulped down his remaining whiskey. "Thank God," he sighed.

Victoria saw his reaction with some surprise. Quietly, she said, "You wouldn't have been responsible for Heath's actions even if he had done it."

"I'm not so sure about that. But it's more basic than that. If my own brother--half-brother, even--could be a cold-blooded murder, what am I?" He saw again the hollowed-out town, the ugly hills, the shabby little cottage. He shook off the image. "You said what Father would have wanted. Are you so sure you know what that is?"

"Yes, I am. Your father would only have gone to that meeting if he believed it was true. And if he believed it was true, he would have done the right thing. He would have done what he could to help the boy."

And yet, Jarrod thought. Here was the other ugly fact, as ugly in all its ramifications as that dying town. "But he didn't do the right thing, Mother, if that's what the right thing is. For twenty-some years he apparently thought the right thing was to ignore the situation."

Victoria frowned, looked away. "Yes," she murmured, "yes, that is the hard thing. I can't imagine...and yet he must have....Still," she said more firmly, "if he did ignore it for all those years, he must have changed his mind."

Jarrod didn't respond right away. He didn't doubt his mother's superior knowledge of Tom Barkley. But in this case he doubted her interpretation. He didn't doubt that Tom had gone because he believed Heath was his son, but he wasn't so sure what Tom had meant to do. "You realized," he said, "that this will be very difficult. For Nick and Audra especially."

"Nick and Audra will deal with the matter better than you think. Audra--Audra is very upset. But Nick has already begun to accept it. And if you're worried about me, Jarrod, well, I've lived down a scandal or two. A little gossip now won't kill any of us." Her voice stronger, she continued, "It won't diminish your father's real accomplishments, either. In time people will see that."

He was still staring into his empty glass. Diminish? Perhaps not, but things could not remain unchanged, either.

"Your father," Victoria said, "was one of those men with a natural gift--other men looked to him and followed him. They followed him in part because he was a good man, he practiced as he preached. He built all of this without ever resorting to cheating or trickery. But, Jarrod, other men followed him because he was right, too. And that part hasn't changed."

"No," Jarrod said finally. "One of the hellish things about this--even after all this, the basic problem still hasn't gone away. The problem with Coastal & Western hasn't gotten any more manageable."

"But once they catch Ledyard--"

Jarrod gave a grim smile. "Catching Ledyard will be no small task."

"Well, an indictment at least. That should give Hannibal Jordan some trouble."

"An indictment?"

"I forgot to tell you. Phil Archer is holding an inquest tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Really?" Jarrod frowned. "Is Heath up to testifying?"

"I can't believe he would be."

Jarrod shrugged. "Well, I would have waited a day or two. But if he's seeking an indictment of Ledyard it doesn't really matter." He yawned. "There go my hopes of sleeping in tomorrow." He hesitated. "Have you--have you talked to Heath?"

"No," she said. "He's been very ill, Jarrod, but I think he'll be all right. No, I thought first we must discuss the matter here. It can wait until after the inquest."

Normally it would have been difficult to seat a large jury this time of year--it was early summer, and everyone was busy. But the murder of Tom Barkley was the most electrifying event in the history of Stockton, and by the morning of the inquest the rumor was spreading like wildfire that sensation allegations would be aired. It was generally known that a man had been in jail for the shooting; it was less generally known that he wasn't in jail any longer.

Frank Sawyer took a seat in the back. He noticed, with approval, that the Barkleys were out in full force. He'd spent enough time around them now to figure they at least wanted this matter dealt with squarely. However mad they might be about Heath turning up, or claiming that Barkley was his pa, they were fair enough folk not to want him hanged for the wrong reason. Frank felt pretty sure things would go more smoothly with them around. That prosecuting attorney made him nervous. What put the burr under his saddle?

But an impartial observer would have had a hard time realizing there was a burr under Phil Archer's saddle. Archer's questioning style was typically restrained and nonconfrontational; he saved any emotional flourishes for his summing up. Yet Jarrod, as well as Frank and Victoria, could immediately detect a tone in Archer's questions that made them nervous.

Nick was called to the stand first. Archer questioned him at length about his suspicions regarding Heath's possible connection to the railroad troubles. He spent little time on the actual scene of the shooting. Jarrod, in the audience, shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps Phil was unprepared, he thought, or perhaps it was just his own defense-oriented habits making him uneasy. Phil got testimony from Nick that no one else was present in the alley, but no testimony regarding Nick's lack of knowledge about how much time might have passed. Phil got Nick to admit that he hadn't heard any shots, but no testimony regarding the level of noise from Piper's. Phil dwelt on the characteristics of the expensive Colt that had raised Nick's suspicions without making it clear that the Colt wasn't in the alley.

Archer kept Nick on for the best part of the morning. Nick was growing increasingly uncomfortable, sensing that his answers weren't helping Heath much. But when he tried to expand, Archer cut him off. And when Archer caught him tossing imploring looks toward Jarrod, the prosecuting attorney rebuked Nick in fairly stringent terms.

The inquest broke for lunch. Nick, drained, stumbled off the stand. Jarrod turned to see a steaming Frank Sawyer. "We took that fella by the hand and led him through this mess yesterday," Frank snapped. "What the Sam Hill is goin on here? He's slantin everyone against Heath."

Nick wiped his brow. "I'd rather be on a hot griddle than in that chair again. Can't you do anything, Jarrod?"

"Not formally," Jarrod said. "I can't question witnesses, Nick. I can, as a citizen, request that specific information be put before the jury. But I think you're both wrong. Archer's no fool. Hell, any prosecutor would be thrilled to get Ledyard. I think he's just underprepared. Nick, you stay with Mother. Why not go over to my office and have some lunch there? Try to keep her from getting crushed out here. And stay away from the Eagle offices," he ended wryly.

Nick took Victoria's arm and firmly steered her through the crowd. Frank, still glowering, headed off to the doctor's house. Jarrod took a breath, gathered his thoughts, and set out to find Phil Archer.

After a knock, Jarrod put his head around Archer's door. "Have a moment, counselor?"

"I don't know if this is proper, Jarrod."

Jarrod stepped in with a confidence he didn't feel, and closed the door firmly behind him. "Now, Phil, you didn't used to be such a stickler for proprieties."

"Yes, I was," Archer said. "You just never noticed before."

Ignoring the chilliness in the room, Jarrod settled himself in a worn leather chair. "Mighty big case, if I may say so," he mused. "I just wondered, Phil, if you aren't rushing things a little. There was no need for an inquest this soon. A few more days--a little more preparation--might have made your life a little easier."

Archer tensed. "I'm as prepared as I need to be."

"Phil, I'm not criticizing. It's only been a few days, and so much of the evidence has just turned up in the last two days. Anyone would be in a fix trying to get this case out this soon."

"I don't see why you think I'm unprepared," Archer snapped. "I'm getting everything in the record that I want."

"I see," Jarrod said slowly. Then, gently, he added, "But with Nick--"

"I got everything I wanted," Archer repeated.

Jarrod felt a little cold, and a little annoyed. "Well, Phil, I'm glad. But aren't you missing an important witness? Or he is still amnesiac?"

"No, he's not. He gave a statement last night."

"Last night?" Jarrod had helped himself to a cigar, but he froze, the match still inches from the flint. "You took a statement last night?"

"Yes, of course. It's properly signed. I'll enter it into evidence this afternoon."

"It's my understanding," Jarrod said carefully, "that Heath was very ill until sometime yesterday. Do you think he was up to giving a statement last night?"

"He made no objections."

"That's no answer, Phil. He may not have been able to make an objection. I'm assuming he had no representation."

"Jarrod, there's no requirement for that. The statement was made voluntarily."

"I see," Jarrod said, but he didn't. This side of Phil Archer puzzled him. When had Phil turned so cold? "Is there something particular about this case, Phil? Do you feel some special--" Jarrod struggled for the right word. "Some special--obligation? Because if you do, you're worrying unnecessarily."

"A special obligation?" Archer said, his voice very thin. "A special obligation to bring to justice the murderer of Thomas Barkley? I feel no special obligation. I enforce the law, without fear or favor. Do you remember that phrase, Jarrod?"

"Of course, Phil. I just didn't want you to feel that our friendship placed any burden on you." Jarrod suddenly wondered if there was such a friendship. Once they had been fairly close. Jarrod finally lit his cigar, inhaled. "From your questioning, I get the impression you think Heath is guilty."

"It's not my business to have an opinion. You know very well that it's my job to present all the evidence and let the jury make a determination. Of course if it were my business to have an opinion, you can appreciate why I'm confused. First I'm told the sheriff has a man in custody, a disgruntled former employee, and the case against him is airtight. A few days later I'm summarily informed that the former employee is quite blameless and in fact is not a former employee but your father's illegitimate son, and that by all means I'm not to make a case against him. Rather I'm to bring a case slanted towards this Ledyard fellow. You can see why I'd be confused."

"I gather you felt pressured in this matter."

"Let us say pressure was brought. Obviously I have tried not to feel it."

"It wasn't brought by my family, Phil."

"It wasn't brought by your family, but it was brought on behalf of your family. Apparently even an illegitimate Barkley is entitled to special favor."

Jarrod struggled for control. This was a side of Phil he'd not seen before. He thought: you don't know what Sawyer said. You have the impression Sawyer could be--well, blunt is a gentle word for that style. No wonder Phil's feeling aggrieved. "Phil, I'm genuinely sorry if you felt your were being pressured. We certainly wouldn't have condoned any such tactic. On behalf of any member of the family. Nonetheless, Phil, you must admit the case against Ledyard is very strong. And I don't think it's being presented."

"Jarrod, because of our friendship, and my respect for your skills, I'm going to let that pass. It's my understanding you've been out of town the last few days. If I'm unfamiliar with the case you must be so much less so. I would ask that you respect my judgment in this matter. I assure you I am bringing the most unbiased case I can."

Jarrod realized it was foolhardy to press the matter. "Of course you are, Phil. And I shouldn't have brought this up--especially not so early. You've only had one witness up. Please excuse me."

"I realize the circumstances are unusual. And I'm sure you wouldn't interfere otherwise."

Jarrod let the word "interfere" pass without further comment. He figured he'd made Phil mad enough already.

Lyman was called after lunch. Lyman, like Nick, was predisposed to the Ledyard evidence. But he was by nature a more laconic man, and he had less at stake. And although he spent a good two hours on the stand, little of the evidence bearing on Ledyard got in.

It was late afternoon. Archer seemed prepared to sum up. The judge, as was the custom, asked if anyone else had relevant evidence. There was a silence. Archer said, "I believe that's everything."

Now or never, Jarrod thought. He stood up. "Your honor," he started. Archer's glare could have burnt paper. "I believe there's another witness that ought to be called."

"Well, Mr. Barkley, that's not what I asked. I assume you're not the other witness."

"No, sir, I'm not."

"If that other fellow doesn't think he's got evidence..."

Frank realized: It's me he's talkin about. He stood up. "I got evidence."

"Ah. Mr. Barkley, you may sit down. Your name, sir?"

"Sheriff Frank Sawyer."

The judge smiled. "A name I recognize, I believe. Mr. Archer, do you wish to question this man?"

Archer thought a moment, then said, "I do not have any questions at this time."

"Fine. But, Sheriff, you may make a statement if you think it would help the jury in bringing a true bill. If that's your intent, step up and be sworn."

Frank stepped up and was sworn. He took the witness chair and told his story briefly, concentrating on the various notes and their ties to Ledyard. Archer squirmed. Towards the end, the judge asked, "And you say Sheriff Lyman was with you, then, too?"

"Yessir. He was with me the whole time."

"Sheriff Lyman?"

Lyman rose. "That's right, sir. I can back up what Frank's said so far."

"I see. Sheriff, continue."

When Frank was finished, and, after a time, the notes from Ledyard produced, Archer asked some questions, highlighting the fact that the notes couldn't be conclusively proven to be written by Ledyard.

By the time the questioning was finished, it was past six o'clock. The judge gave the jury a brief summation, explaining their options. He then ordered the room cleared so the jury could deliberate.

Jarrod caught up with Frank. "You're a fine witness, Sheriff."

"Should be after all these years."

"That was rather brave of you."

Frank shrugged. "I don't have to live in this town, and I don't have to worry about no peabrained prosecuting attorney. You still say that fella's just unprepared?"

Jarrod hesitated. "Not unprepared," he said finally. "Just--very thorough. And, I think, bending over backwards to try and not show any favoritism."

Frank harrumphed.

"No, really. Phil's not a bad fellow. But, Sheriff, I do want to thank you."

Gruffly, Frank said, "I didn't do it for you."

"I know. But...We don't know him, Sheriff. Ten days ago we didn't even know he existed. It's helped--it's helped a great deal to see him through your actions."

"Yes, well...Well, I better get me some supper. Any idea how long them folks'll take?"

"Hopefully not long. I'll make sure we find you when they come in."

But it was a long time. The late hour didn't deter spectators; the room was as packed as it had been at nine o'clock in the morning. The jury did not come back until past midnight. They brought in a true bill against James Ledyard for the first-degree murder of Thomas Barkley. The reading of the bill brought a ripple of excitement through the crowd.

A grim nod of satisfaction passed between Frank Sawyer and Nick Barkley; Frank quickly disappeared. Nick again took charge of Victoria and pushed open a way through the crowd.

When the crowd thinned Jarrod went up to Archer, still at his desk. Archer's face was blank. "You don't look very happy, Phil."

"Should I?"

"You just got an indictment against one of the most wanted men in the country. Most prosecutors would be tinkled pink."

"I doubt if the case will ever be brought. And if brought I doubt it could be won."

"You never know, Phil."

"No, you never know." Archer straightened up his papers. "SO this man is your brother. Half-brother."

"Yes, he is."

"Still, Jarrod, I'm surprised to find that you claim the relationship. Given that people believed he murdered your father."

"Past tense, Phil. After all, your own jury just brought an indictment against someone else."

"Yes, well, fortunate for him. Perhaps even half-brothers have the Barkley luck."

"That sounds awfully sour for an impartial prosecutor."

Archer stood. "I don't mean to sound sour. Of course I stand by the jury's verdict. And if Ledyard's ever caught I'd bring the case. Good night, Jarrod."

Jarrod watched him go, still puzzled. He found himself praying no family member would put themselves in Phil Archer's grasp anytime soon.

The next morning Heath hauled himself out of bed and got dressed. It was a slow and frustrating process. The headache was back, not as bad as before but not a thing to be easily ignored. He was stiff from lying a-bed so long, and his fingers were clumsy. Still, he was damned if he was going to spend one more minute in this house. Mrs. Merar was nice enough, but she fluttered around too much, all the time talking. His head was in no shape for listening. He half-thought he'd rather be back in jail.

He still pretty much believed jail was where he was headed, and a gallows after that. He'd followed at least a little of what Frank had told him yesterday, about this Ledyard fellow and the railroad mess. It had been hard for him to let go of the idea that the Barkleys had been behind it, an idea that had made Frank laugh out loud. Well, Frank hadn't been there. Frank hadn't seen the hard eyes of those Barkley men when they'd tossed him off their precious ranch. Maybe they weren't so cold-blooded as to set up murder, but they were cold-blooded enough to watch him swing without any pangs.

All he wanted now was to get out of town. If Frank was right and they had somebody else and he could just ride out, fine. But if not-well, he hated to think of himself as an escaped man, on the run from the law. Embarrassing Frank like that. But Frank knew he was innocent. Better on the lam than swinging. Although, Heath thought bitterly, a rope's better'n stayin in this town one minute extra.

Frank came in while he was still struggling with the buttons on his shirt. "Well, this is a fine sight," Frank said. "You sure you're well enough to be up and about?"

"Yeah," Heath said shortly. "Thanks for bringin my stuff."

"Well, I'm bringing good news, too. Took all day and most of the night, but they brought in a true bill against James Ledyard."

That was enough to distract Heath from the pesky buttons. "You mean I can go?"

"Go?" Frank echoed. "Look at you. You ain't fit to be walking down to breakfast. Where you fixin on goin?"

"Anywhere," Heath said. "I-

The door was opened by a frowning Mrs. Merar. "It's awfully early but you've got a passel of callers," she said. Behind her thronged Victoria, Jarrod, and Nick.

The family discussion had, necessarily, started very late. And it had continued, without pause, through the night. Victoria and Jarrod were calm but unshakeable. Nick had an outburst or two, but he was resigned. Audra remained volatile. But in the end Victoria and Jarrod carried the day. They had an obligation to try and carry out Tom Barkley's wishes, as best as they could divine them. That meant, Victoria insisted, offering this young man his place in the family. How that could be done-would he live with them? Would he work?-hadn't yet been ironed out. But Victoria was adamant that it had to be done, and it had to be done immediately.

Victoria had wanted to leave Nick at home. There had always been a current of bad feeling between the two young men. Nick had had some time to come around, but not, Victoria sensed, quite enough. And perhaps Heath would react badly to Nick. But Nick had insisted, and Victoria had relented. Yes, there had been bad feeling between the two; but if Heath were likely to make common cause with any of the family, it was Nick, with the two similar in age and interest.

"We've come," Victoria said, "to discuss the future."

"Ain't your business," Heath said. "Ain't no thanks to you I got one."

"Hold on, now," Frank said mildly. "Don't sound like you paid much attention yesterday. These folks-"

Heath shrugged. He went back to working on the buttons.

This was a bad beginning. Firmly, Victoria continued. "We believe-my children and I-that your father would have wanted to acknowledge you. To treat you as his son. We want to do that. I don't know what quite form this should take, but we can discuss that."

"No, thanks," Heath growled.

"What?" Victoria frowned.

"No thanks. I don't want nothin from you. Just get out."

"Hey, wait a damned minute," Nick barked. "We're offering you ourselves! Our family! The best thing we have. And you're just turning up your nose at us? You damned-"

"Damned liar," Heath snapped back. "Ain't that what I am? Damned liar. Damned murderer. Nice of you to change your mind. I wouldn't take nothin from you, not if it was on a silver platter. Mama was right. She didn't want nothin to do with you and I shouldna neither."

"Heath," Jarrod said in his best level tone, "what's happened here has been tragic. Father's death, your being accused. It shouldn't have happened. But it can be made right."

Heath turned to Frank. "Am I out of trouble with the law?"

"Yes, son, you're out of trouble."

"So I can go if I want to?"

"Yes," Frank said, "you can go. But, Heath, why not listen to these folks?"

Heath glared at him. "Do I got to listen? Any law says I got to listen to them?"

"No," Frank said sadly. "No, you don't have to listen."

"Good," Heath said. To the Barkleys, he said, "Save your breath. It don't matter. I ain't listenin." He limped to a chair, picked up his saddle bags.

Jarrod stepped in front of him. "Before you go, perhaps you could satisfy my curiosity. I've been in Strawberry. I've seen your friend Rachel. Why didn't you show us the letter, Heath? You had proof with you all along and you didn't use it. Why didn't you?"

Heath glared at him. He thought: what's worse than facing up to what a damned fool you been? Facing up to romantic notions, stupid dreams. He fumbled in his saddlebag. He threw the letter at their feet. His defiance buckled. He couldn't look at any of them. "I didn't want to prove nothing," he muttered. "I wanted him to know me. I didn't want to have to prove nothing."

His legs unsteady, his head down, he pushed past them, and went out the door.

Victoria finally bent down to pick up the letter, her heart rent. No, he hadn't wanted to prove anything. He'd come here hoping, at some level, that his father would look at him and know him. Perhaps, Victoria thought, in that alley, perhaps it had happened. She reached out to Nick, who was ready to follow Heath. "Let him go," she said quietly. She turned to Frank.

"I'll catch up with him," Frank said. "He can be impulsive. Hot-headed. When he cools down a little-well, when he cools down a little I'm sure he'll think differently." He went after Heath.

"That's it?" Nick said. "After all this-after letting it come out at the inquest, after worrying ourselves to death about what to do, that's it? We just let him go?"

"For now," Victoria said. "For now, it's all we can do." She put the letter in a pocket.

Frank caught up with Heath outside. "What're you gonna do, Heath?" he asked.

"Don't know," Heath said.

"You got a job to go to?"

"No, course not."

"You got any particular place you're headed?"

"No. Just-I just want to get the hell away from here. And never come back."

"Hmm." They walked along. Frank noticed that Heath wasn't all that steady on his feet. "Listen, son, why don't you come back to Jubilee with me? You took a bad knock there." They both knew he didn't just mean the ugly scar on his head, but Frank didn't elaborate. "Rest up for a week or two. Get back on your feet proper."

Heath stopped. "I don't want no lectures, Frank."

Frank grinned. "When'd I ever lecture you, son?"

Heath frowned. "Not more'n once a day."

"I'll try to keep the lecturin down. But, son, just answer me one question. You come here lookin for these folks-they didn't go lookin for you. Now, just when they come around, you go runnin off. Why not stay here a spell? Get to know them?"

Heath shook his head firmly. So firmly it made him a little dizzy, and he stopped. Finally, he said, "It was a mistake. Didn't ought to have come here. Mama didn't want it. She was right. Look what happened." He blinked, trying to clear the pain from his head. "They changed their minds about me once, Frank. Sooner or later they'd change em back. Sooner or later they'd decide I didn't give the right proof after all. Sooner or later they'd remember all the bad things they thought about me, and start thinkin em again. And maybe I'd do the same."

"You don't know that, son."

"I know it. I know I don't belong with them folks. And if you're gonna keep on at this, Frank, I don't belong to be around you, neither."

"All right," Frank said. "End of lecture. Let's go get that ugly little pony of yours out of stir."

Hard as it was to believe, the last few days had been dramatic and eventful-but the basic problem hadn't changed. Coastal & Western gave no sign of relenting, even if whispers put Tom Barkley's blood on Hannibal Jordan's hands. The injunction was still set to expire, and the legislature had gone home. The farmers had no more, and certainly no better, options than they'd had before James Ledyard had worked his mischief. They could give in; they could take the railroad's mortgage offer; they could fight.

Jarrod of course was still counseling them that another option existed, and early the next week he went to Sacramento and San Francisco to see if he could get it.

He went to Sacramento to corner whatever legislators and other influential men were still in town, sounding them out on the possibility of trying, again, to settle the matter through legislation. As before he found a fair amount of sympathy. He also thought, perhaps, there was a little more readiness to do battle with the railroad. This was an election year. Gunning for the railroad would be good politics, and gunning for the current governor would be just good sport. There was a sense that Jordan had gone too far this time. Jarrod found this a little amusing-the gunfight at Apple Hill, between thirty farmers and seventy hired guns, was apparently to most lawmakers acceptable behavior, but a sneak attack on one man wasn't. Perhaps Tom Barkley's death would contribute to the cause, after all.

A little encouraged, Jarrod went onto San Francisco and the judge who'd issued the injunction. Judge Haines had generally been presumed to be in the railroads' pocket, as were most judges. Jarrod had been as amazed as everybody else when Haines had granted the injunction. But to Jarrod's eye, Judge Haines had the look of a man who'd used up all his gumption. In reply to his motion for an extension, Judge Haines wrote an eloquent and extension opinion, noting the courts' notorious reluctance to interfere with free trade. Now, if the parties had conventional claims to tie to the injunction.... But of course the farmers' conventional claims had been tried, and rejected, in Haines' own court.

With that rejection the clock began ticking. The injunction had just two weeks to run. When Jarrod returned from his travels, he met with the affected farmers. The group was sharply divided into two camps: those who felt the mortgage offer was the best they could hope for, and those who wanted to defy the railroad in hopes of a better settlement after the elections. The former group felt that Coastal & Western had shown its true colors. The fight at Apple Hill had been one thing-at least it had been almost like a fair fight. But shooting a man from ambush in a dark alley? That was another thing all together. The other group felt that Coastal & Western had proven it wouldn't live up to any agreement it made. They might make noises about a mortgage settlement, they might even sign papers, but they'd repudiate any time they wanted. And the courts, apparently, would let them get away with it. For this group, the ambush of Tom Barkley proved that they had to get free of Coastal & Western for good and all.

In these discussions, increasingly acrimonious, Tom Barkley's absence was felt by all. It was clear enough that his sons didn't quite agree. Jarrod, though he hated to admit it, leaned toward the mortgage offer. It wasn't really fair, but it was a significant drop from the prices demanded by C&W the year before, and the payments were within reach of virtually all the farmers. It was galling, but it would settle the matter, and without bloodshed. And God knew there had been enough bloodshed already.

Nick, predictably, was with the group who wanted to fight. Hannibal Jordan-and when you said Coastal & Western, you were really just talking about Jordan-was not a man to be trusted or dealt with by any means except violence. Negotiations were, to Jordan, signs of weakness. This group was grimly aware that it would probably be sadly outgunned, and its chances of success would be significantly worse than the previous year, especially if some of the farmers opted to take the C&W mortgage offer. But they saw no alternative. They shrugged at Jarrod's suggestion that extensions might be gained, laws might be passed. Hadn't that all been tried? And what had been accomplished? Nothing but one man dead.

The private discussions between Nick and Jarrod were even sharper. Tom Barkley hadn't taken a firm stance in the last weeks, and while both of his sons were sure they knew what he wanted, neither could point to any unequivocal evidence. On the one hand Tom had been willing to fight last year; on the other hand, the C&W terms had been much harsher. Impossible to be sure what he would have done.

Victoria saw all of this with no little dismay. She knew that, if it came to a fight, they would both be there. And if it came to a fight, they would be targets. Perhaps they would be targets even without a fight. If Jordan had plotted to kill Tom Barkley, what would stop him from going after his sons?

But of course the argument over the C&W matter was useful in its way. Caught up in the struggle to get justice for the farmers, neither Nick nor Jarrod had much time for grieving. They believed that standing by the farmers was the best way they could honor the man; but Victoria knew honor was no substitute for grief. And their grief was a double one, for they hadn't just lost a father, they had lost some faith, too. For that there would have to be a reckoning.

Nick, especially, was uneasy. His anguish at this father's loss was mingled with anger over the unexpected rejection by Heath. Nick had had to travel very far to begin to accept the idea of Heath as a brother; given how difficult it had been to start, he naturally resented having his progress thwarted. This ranch, this life, this family: they meant the world to Nick, and he'd been accustomed to thinking they were the finest in the world, too. Now a stranger, a man with nothing, had been offered all that, and turned away from it. Without even a backward glance. Nick had been wrong about his father. What else was he wrong about? No wonder he saw the struggle with the railroad in such sharp, clear terms; so little else had that clarity.

After a particularly acrimonious meeting, Jarrod went back to San Francisco on other business. He was surprised to run into Malachi Crown. Crown gave his condolences.

"You almost sound as if you mean them," Jarrod said.

"I do. Your father was an anachronism and an impediment to progress, and unfortunately he got others to see things his way. But he was an honorable man nonetheless. There aren't a great many of them left."

"I wonder that you see any of them at all in your business."

"I assure you," Crown said, "that this business attracts the same variety of human nature as any other. I doubt that all of your farmers are as virtuous as you like to believe."

The words hit a little too close to home, and Jarrod winced. He recovered his composure and said, "So, Crown, what's next?"

"For me, an eastbound train."

"Really? Got some farmers to swindle in Denver?"

"This cynicism doesn't become you, Barkley. No, much further east than that. I've been offered a position with the New York Central. I'm taking it."

The news came as a shock to Jarrod. He couldn't imagine Coastal & Western without Crown. Jordan had had the seed capital, and the political connections, but Crown had always had the brains. "I wish you luck, of course. No doubt Jordan is distraught at the loss."

"I wouldn't say so. Of course Mr. Jordan is perfectly capable of managing his business without me. And the best of partnerships can only go on so long. One grows stale and in need of fresh challenges."

Jarrod smiled a little. "In short, Jordan's recent actions have been too much even for you to swallow."

"I don't know what you mean."

Jarrod laid a hand on Crown's arm, leaned in. "You know what I mean. For God's sake, Crown, you've made your money, you've already got another place back east. If you can help at all, this is the time."

"Barkley," Crown said gently, "I can't help you. Even if such help would not be a gross betrayal of old loyalties-well, even if I wanted to, I can't. If you're looking for proof that Ledyard was acting on orders from Hannibal Jordan, you'll look in vain."

"From your tone I almost think you looked yourself."

Crown shrugged.

Jarrod said, "But perhaps you still believe Jordan didn't hire James Ledyard."

"I don't believe he did. But I certainly doubt that, even if he did, you'd ever find anything that might constitute proof."

"Unless we find Ledyard."

"Well, I doubt that, too." Crown frowned. "Will you take a little advice, counselor?"

"From you? I suppose so."

Crown sighed, then said, "You didn't hear this from me, of course. But what happened at Apple Hill-I don't think it's likely to happen again. Your farmers stopped-what? Fifty, sixty men? If sixty men didn't work; this time I think a hundred and fifty might. Two hundred to be sure. If it comes to a showdown, it will be a far bloodier one than last time."

"You know this?"

"Of course I don't know this. But you'd agree it's likely. Coastal & Western has been in possession of a court order granting them ownership of that land for several years now. Other efforts to settle the matter have failed. Your friends probably aren't nearly as united as they were before. And your father is gone. But the intent of the railroad hasn't changed. This attempt will succeed."

Jarrod walked away from this encounter in a thoughtful mood. Well, that was Crown for you: he was getting out before the real trouble happened. Two hundred men! Was it possible?

The family had offered a reward for James Ledyard. The poster specified in large letters that the reward was good only if Ledyard was turned in alive. Alive, and ready to testify against Jordan. Jarrod saw one of the posters announcing the reward tacked to a hitching post. Tacked over it, largely obscuring it, was a new poster, offering top dollar for temporary deputies. Interested parties were directed to the C&W office. For work in and around Stockton.

Jarrod tore down the poster. Two hundred men. Somehow that settled the matter for him. With Crown gone there was little hope that anyone, or anything, would make Hannibal Jordan come to heel. These posters were proof that Jordan was preparing, in a big way, to fight. So will we, Jarrod thought grimly. So will we.

Once in Jubilee, there was little for Heath to do besides re-accustom himself to Frank's coal-oil coffee. Frank already had a deputy, though he was predictably dour about the man's abilities. So there was no work for him, even if Frank had thought he was fit for duty. In any case Jubilee was a much tamer town than Spanish Camp, though the accommodations were nearly as Spartan.

Heath felt a deep gratitude to Frank. His head had cleared enough for him to understand just how a near a thing it had been, and that without Frank's efforts he might well be facing a noose by now. He had no doubt that his supposed family could have seen him swing without turning a hair.

Yes, Frank had taken a fatherly interest in him, an interest that no other man had cared to take on. Yet Heath realized that even that was almost at an end. Freed of anxiety about Heath's legal troubles, Frank was free to enjoy the anticipation of a long-held dream. His son was nearly grown, nearly finished with school, and he would come West by the end of the year. As long as Heath could remember this was the only event that Frank had ever talked about with any real emotion. Good as Frank had been to him, he wasn't really Frank's son, and it was clear to Heath that Frank was anxious to have the genuine article at last. Even his gratitude, then, was tinged with sadness and a little jealousy.

But overarching these competing feelings-relief at his near-escape; anger and resent towards his father and his father's family; sadness at the realization that he would soon be replaced-was a long-postponed grief, a grim reckoning. All the excitement of these last weeks-the time in San Francisco, those odd, fraught days at the Barkley ranch, his subsequent injury and imprisonment-bad as those things had been, they'd served their purpose. All those things had been easier to bear. Exciting, even. There had been moments when he'd been fueled with a decisiveness, a determination he'd never known before. For a while there he'd burned with righteous anger; it had lifted him up, borne him along. Intoxicating. But even the thought that he might be hanged was preferable to facing the loss of his mother.

He'd been on his own, sometimes with disastrous results, since he was fourteen. So eager to shake off the dust of that town, the shame of his illegitimacy, the shabbiness of that little cabin. Over those years he'd learned a lot, suffered more. He'd excelled at a few things and yet somehow had succeeded at none of them. Even the best times in those years-his months in Spanish Camp-had been tainted by the rage he'd taken away from that little cabin at the end of Strawberry. No matter how far or how fast he'd run, no matter how much money he could earn or squander, he couldn't shake the cobwebs, he couldn't blot out the stain.

For most of those years-and in going to Stockton-his fury had been propelled, he thought, largely by the material inequity of it all. Starting life without a father meant scratching out an existence at the meanest level. Even a poor father would have given a little more shelter from the wind. Even a poor father might have meant not being yoked to menial labor from the day you were six, hauling Hannah's endless baskets of laundry or toting the buckets of beer up the hills to the mining sites, sneaking a taste and yet having that pleasure tainted by the grim knowledge of just where that weakness and addiction led...

And the strange emptiness on one half of the family tree. It might not have mattered had his mother had family worth having. But the only visible relative had been his Uncle Matt, and a man more venal, more conniving, less admirable, was hard to imagine. There had been no pleasing mirror, no worthy image before him, nothing to emulate. The three women of the household had done their best, but from an early age he'd been offered nothing but rough or contemptible models. He was prepared to admit he'd made himself up and had done a poor job of it, but he'd had little concrete evidence of how to do it better.

But, in those still, empty days in Jubilee, with nothing but a cup of inky, thick coffee to think on, he came to feel that the real sting of the illegitimacy lay not in material or even emotional deprivations. You came into life stamped as a product of human weakness, made from a coarser clay than others. The sorry excess of two people who should have known better, and, in his case, of at least one who regretted the act. Shaped by shame, made only for the scrapheap-how did you escape? God knows he'd tried; he'd run far and wide and fast, only to stay, wherever he went, the bastard son of poor little Leah Thomson.

How long had it been-far longer than ten years-since he'd let himself remember how much he'd loved her? When he'd been very young, how wonderful she'd been. Young, tiny, pretty still, although her hands were roughened by harsh soap and hot water. Her bright laughter, her childish pleasure at the smallest thing: the first flowers of spring, the fresh smell of rain-softened earth, the birds and the rabbits that rummaged in her garden. When his world had been entirely bounded by her-by her smiles in the morning, her songs at night-it had been a happy place. Little Leah, already frail, already fallen in the outside world, had still been able to make her son's world warm and safe and sunlit.

Perhaps she would have turned to the laudanum in any case. She was frail; she was failing, he realized, even in those early years. Perhaps it would have happened any way; perhaps bearing even one child had been more than her body could manage. Her tiny frame, her skin fair past the point of translucency. Perhaps she'd always been doomed.

And yet-and yet he knew that her first real signs of weakness came at the same time he had to step out of the safe orbit of their little world, step out into the uglier world of Strawberry, when he'd had to take his first and lasting judgment. Something in her had crumbled when her son began to understand her failure, when he began to understand the place in the world she'd made for him. From then on, from his first day in the schoolyard to the day he'd left home, the bonds between them had weakened under the burden of her shame and his anger. And as he'd pushed away she'd slipped deeper into the twilight of addiction.

How glad he'd been to leave! Free of those twin shames, his illegitimacy, her addiction. God, how he'd hated those little bottles even as he'd envied her ability to slip into a pleasant fog where the sharp edges of disdain apparently did not cut. And his hatred had been deepened by the sense that her addiction was a desertion; safe in her etherized dream she offered no protection for him. She had her little bottle and her little spoon, and he was alone in the world she'd tainted for him.

How many times had he seen her in those ten years? Three, four? He'd come home for a while after the war, and been grateful for it, but all of his dark feelings had returned along with his strength, and he'd been gone again as soon as possible. Oh, on the face of it he'd been a good enough son. Work kept him away. The perfect excuse. Running cattle in the valley; logging up the Klamath; riding a salmon boat out into the Pacific. Strawberry inconveniently far away, although in those years he must have traveled the whole length of California four or five times. Even the money must have stung. She must have known the money for what it was, a sop, given with a little contempt, knowing as he did how some of it would be spent.

And she'd taken it.

Taken all of it, his anger, his neglect, his contempt. She had never reproached him. When there was sufficient clarity there he thought he saw sadness and understanding, an acceptance. She had done wrong in getting a child without marriage, and she had done worse by being happy in her child. Whatever else came after-the world's contempt or her own son's-she must have felt she deserved it, for she never protested. No; on those few occasions he had returned, always, always, she'd opened her arms to him, her smile still luminous despite her wasted appearance.

Her love for him had been indestructible. He might have tried to cast it off; he might have derided it as debased and worthless. But it had been his. No matter how corrosive his anger, no matter how he'd hated himself and his life, he'd never completed his slide into despair. He'd always managed to keep some hand-hold, to pull himself back.

Now, he thought, she had been that hand-hold. He'd always thought of himself as alone. He'd been wrong. Now he would find out what it really meant to have nothing, to belong to no one and to nothing. For ten years he'd thought of himself as a man battling alone. He'd lost the few people who had tried to stand beside him. Sarah had gone off to her God; his mother was dead; Frank would soon have the real son he'd longed for. Now Heath would find out if he could really stand alone.

And yet that wasn't really the worst of it. His grief was in its infancy; he knew it would get worse. But he felt he could face it. No; it was understanding her loss, her pain. Understanding, finally, just what a role he'd played. For most of his life he had blamed Tom Barkley-without even knowing his name-for using Leah, for exposing her to the world's contempt and then abandoning her. Now he understood that Tom Barkley had had an accomplice. It had taken both of the men Leah loved to destroy her.

Days passed before Victoria could bring herself to read the letter. That first day she'd glanced at it, realized that the handwriting was Tom's, it was genuine. That was enough to absorb. Of course she had accepted the fact of Tom's infidelity, but until that moment she had not yet felt the full sting. She knew the letter would offer up final proof of one betrayal or another. Either the letter would show his great affection for this unknown woman, and the long years of marriage after that would be exposed as a lie. Or the letter would reveal that the man she had loved--worse, the man she had respected and admired, the man who had guided her sons--had been selfish, calculating, a cad, capable of turning his back on a profound responsibility.

She could not decide which would be worse.

But Victoria was no shrinking violet, and she was as steadfast facing threats to the heart as she had been facing Indians on the trip across the Plains. There came a quiet afternoon; Jarrod was off in San Francisco, trying to defuse the railroad situation; Nick was out on the ranch; Audra had finally pulled herself together enough to face her friends and had gone into town for a visit. Victoria took her letter and went into the library.

Tom's desk had been cleared; she had seen to it herself. Neither Jarrod nor Nick had been quite able to use the desk, though they had both done so while Tom was alive. Nor could she use it, now. Even cleared of Tom's habitual neat stacks of paper, it remained too personal, too much his own. The dark leather chair, much worn compared to the rest of the furniture in the library, still bore the imprint of his heavy frame. She turned her back to the desk and settled herself by one of the French doors.

The letter pained her. There was far more affection in the letter than she could comfortably see--more, she realized, than would be apparent to any other reader. Any other reader would note how prominently Tom had mentioned her, her children, his devotion to them. To any one else the letter would seem no more than considerate, kindly, perhaps even a little paternal, especially the imperative regarding marriage and children.

She knew better. Tom had been a shrewd businessman and a good judge of men, but women had been rarely caught his attention. Brought up in a harsh religious sect, educated with all boys, without sisters or, from an early age, a mother, Tom had had little insight into women, and, truth be told, little interest in them. She had known that the very things that had made most men pause before courting her--her intelligence, her blunt tongue, her determination--were the very things that had made her attractive to Tom, because they were attributes valued in his man's world.

For him to have written with such gentleness, such warmth--it had been something more than a passing fancy, she knew. In the end the other woman's charms hadn't been strong enough. Victoria believed that Tom's expressions of love and pride in her were genuine, that they had been

genuine in the years after. There was not so much affection toward Leah Thomson to make her doubt that. But there was enough--oh, more than enough--to wound. Another woman had tempted him; worse, another woman had gained his attention, held it for some little time, held it long enough for him to consider her best qualities, to wonder about her future. That hurt worse than the physical betrayal. She found her mind wandering. What had she been like, then? Young? How much younger? Prettier?

These musings--very unworthy ones, she reminded herself--for a while distracted her from the other issue. She read the letter through again, two, three times. No mention of an expected child. Nor, to judge from his tone, had there been any mention. No man--especially not blunt Tom Barkley--could have written such a note while callously consiging his child to oblivion.

And she found that she preferred to take the knowledge of his betrayal of her over the betrayal of an innocent child. Better to know he had been weak, human--but then arent' all men?--than to admit that he had been a monster of selfishness, of calculation. Better to know that so much could be salvaged for her children. The other--that was her hurt, not theirs. They could go on holding their heads high, they could, someday, again value their father as he deserved.

These thoughts occupied her a while. But she began to wonder. If Heath had had the letter--why, then, had he been so resentful? Surely he had realized that Tom, however blameworthy his initial act, had not intentionally compounded it. Surely he could not hold Tom responsible for not fixing a problem whose existence he never realized. Yet resentful the boy had been, and worse at their last meeting. She puzzled over it, trying to find in that slight acquaintance some resemblance to the father, something that would help her understand.

All three of her children were home for dinner that night. Jarrod and Nick seemed resigned to more trouble with the railroad. Yet the atmosphere around the table was lighter than it had been since Tom died. Audra had faced down the gossip in town, and she seemed invigorated by the experience. Nick and Jarrod were sliding back into their everyday concerns. She realized, with regret, that her next words would halt this healing process.

"I'm going to Jubilee tomorrow," she said casually.

"Jubilee?" Audra said. "Good heavens, Mother, what's in Jubilee?"

"He," Nick said sharply, "is in Jubilee. Or that's where he was supposed to be going. Not that we'd know."

"You mean--Father's--" Audra hesitated.

"Your father's son," Victoria said gently, "although 'your brother' is less of a mouthful."

"Listen, Mother, I don't mean to tell you your business. But you went to this fellow once and were ready to offer him the moon. He turned his back on you. You don't owe him anything else."

"Nick," she said, "has it occurred to you that that wasn't perhaps the best time to have offered him anything? All he knew about us was that he was thrown off the ranch and then accused of murder. Wouldn't you have been angry?"

Nick frowned and looked away. Jarrod said, "What do you plan to do?"

"Talk to him."

Nick snorted. "That'll be difficult."

"Perhaps. Perhaps I'll fail. But I think I have to try, Nick."

"All right," Nick said, "but I want one thing clear. If you think we owe him money--fine. Give it to him. But that's it, Mother. The idea of him living here--trying to be a part of this family--it's hopeless. Ridiculous. Impossible."

"Nicholas, we already discussed this."

"Well, I want to discuss it again. You saw the way he acted that day. Can you imagine having that, here, under our roof? It would be unbearable."

"You mean it would be embarrassing. I don't think that's enough of an excuse."

"No, Mother, it would be more than embarrassing."

"He's rude," Audra interjected. "He was very rude to me."

"Well, you asked for it," Nick grumbled.

"Whose side are you on?" Audra fumed.

"It's not a question of sides, Audra," Jarrod said. "Mother, I admire your courage. And your principles. But I do think there's a limit to the effort you have to make in this situation."

"You may be right, but I don't think that limit has been reached, Jarrod."

"Mother," Jarrod asked, "how far would you really go, against our wishes? You know how strongly Nick and Audra object to the idea of having him here."

"And you, Jarrod? You agreed with me before. Have you changed your mind?"

Jarrod thought a minute. "I've never denied that Heath is owed some consideration from us. And if things had worked out differently..." He paused, remembering the touchy young man he'd met in San Francisco. "Well, it would have been difficult in any case. But now..."

"Tell me, Jarrod, Nick, Audra," and a cool note had entered her voice, "what if it were your father asking? Would your response have been different?"

A silence fell over the table. Finally, awkwardly, Nick said, "If Father was here everything would be different."

"Do you mean you would have made a greater effort for him? Or that his wishes mean more to you than mine?"

"Of course that's not what I mean, Mother!"

"Then," she said quietly, "do for me as you would for him. In fact, do it for him. You're still in the fight with the railroad because of him. Because that's what he would have wanted, because that's the kind of man he was. Well, this is also what he wanted, and what kind of man he was. If you can risk your lives to help those farmers, you can risk something here, too."

Nick said, "You shouldn't go alone."

"I have to, Nick. I think this is something only I can do. And don't look like that. I've driven farther than Jubilee on my own before."

Frank said: "Whyn't you make yourself useful? Go on down to the post office. And check at the telegraph office, too."

"You expectin something?" Heath asked.

"It's the day I usually hear from Chad. But I'm tired of seeing your long mope around this office. Get yourself outside, get a little bit of air. And like I said, make yourself useful."

Frank watched him go with irritated affection. He was fond of the boy, sure enough, but that young fella could get himself deeper into the dumps than any other soul he'd ever seen. He'd been that way back in Spanish Camp, too, dropping into the slough every time that schoolmarm looked at him cross-eyed, when anyone in his right mind would have seen from the get-go that teacher had no intent of ever saying yea to him. In the end Heath had gone low enough to throw off his good job, his future as a lawman, just to kick around Mexico and mope over that girl.

Frank was more than ready to admit that this time Heath had a much better reason to mope. He knew how deeply the boy had been marked by not having a proper pa. He suspected other things had been wrong at home. And the turnabout of the last few weeks would have been enough to rock even a marble statue. But Heath was the sort that needed something to focus on, he needed some fresh interest to come along and jolt him out. Otherwise he'd just keep sliding, just like he'd done in Spanish Camp.

As long as James Ledyard was still on the loose, Frank felt better keeping Heath under his careful eye. Frank thought Ledyard was much too smart to try and take another shot at Heath, he was probably sharp enough to realize that Heath couldn't do much to strengthen the case against him. And if he was really as smart as folks said, he'd realize that Heath alive was far more useful than Heath dead. Heath dead was an admission of Ledyard's guilt, but alive he was a deflection, another potential suspect, however tenuous. For Heath's sake, Frank devoutly hoped Ledyard would be captured and brought to trial; that was the only thing that would clear Heath fully. But he doubted Ledyard would be careless enough to get caught anytime soon. Ledyard was probably already in Mexico, and Heath was probably physically safe enough, even if his reputation wasn't quite mended.

Frank wished he could justify keeping him on here. With Chad coming out in a few months, Heath would be just the sort of company for him, a young fella more his age but with the practical smarts Chad hadn't had a chance to pick up yet. Of course Heath didn't have the advantages Chad did, and it might be hard for him to someday see Chad outstrip him as a lawman. Still, it was pleasant to think of the young men becoming friends. But Frank already had a deputy, however mediocre George Rhodes might be, and he didn't feel quite right in just letting him go for no good reason.

And the fact was that Heath couldn't afford to hang around here all fall. Of course if he'd been a little less impulsive--if he'd been more willing to hang around and hear what the Barkleys had had to say, Heath might not have to worry about finding another job to make it through the winter. But he'd done as he'd done, and, on that score, Frank approved. He'd made it this far without a handout; he'd do well enough.

The door opened. Frank didn't look up, expecting it to be Heath. "You got to the telegraph office, too, that quick?"

"I'm sorry," Victoria said. "You were obviously expecting someone else."

It was almost as if his musing had conjured her up. Frank was surprised, and he couldn't hide it. "It's Mrs. Barkley, ain't it? This here sure is a surprise. Heath didn't mention you coming out here."

"Heath didn't know. He is still here, I hope."

"Out fetching the mail. I been tryin to think of ways to lift the boy's spirits a little."

Thoughtfully, Victoria said, "He's still thinking about the last few weeks, you believe?"

"Yes, ma'am, I do. He's basically a good-hearted fella, but he's always been a little on the moody side. He can get lower than any man I've ever seen." Frank thought suddenly this might not be the best way to endear Heath to his father's family. "Not that he don't have reason to be low right now. And most of the time, like I said, he's a good-hearted fella."

Victoria nodded. Tom, too, had had his black moods. He had hid them behind a screen of resolute activity, but they had been there. No surprise that his son, at perhaps the worst juncture of his young life and at loose ends to boot, wasn't so successful at hiding them. "I was very disappointed at the way we left things," she said. "I was hoping that perhaps enough time had passed for Heath to be a little less angry. Perhaps more willing to listen. And to talk."

"I can't rightly say, ma'am. He ain't as hot as he was that day. He's still awful touchy. But it's real nice of you to come all this way." Frank looked away, a little embarrassed. "He's worth the effort, ma'am. I know he ain't yours, and finding out about him must have been a shock. But he is a fine boy. I'd be proud enough if he was mine." He cleared his throat. "Whyn't I get you a cup of coffee and you sit down and wait. Or maybe you'd like to go on back and wait there. It's a little more cozy. I'll send Heath on back when he gets here."

Heath was in no hurry to finish his little task. Very little task, he thought dryly. He was used to using his limbs a lot more roughly than this. Hell, he'd gotten more exercise in a winter line shack. But Frank was right, he needed to get out. He felt ridiculously self-conscious. The wound on his head was healing, and the swelling and bruising were gone, but the hair hadn't all grown back, and it was still an ugly sight.

But it wasn't that, really, that made him uncomfortable. The one truth that he'd tried to hide about himself was now public property. Oh, maybe it wasn't, really. Maybe this far from Stockton folks really hadn't heard. But the Barkleys were prominent folks. Even he'd heard the name before. He figured anything this scandalous would travel fast and far. At least, he thought bitterly, his mother's other secret was still that. He hated the idea that someone would go pawing around Strawberry now, looking for more dirt. God knows his uncle Matt would give it. Or perhaps even Hannah, innocently. It would be one more disastrous result from his ill-considered trip to Stockton. Where did the bad consequences stop?

And, he knew, folks didn't look over and then slide their eyes away just because they wanted to see Tom Barkley's byblow. The fact that a man with a reputation for upright dealings had a little accident wasn't really all that surprising. But that the son had been jailed for murder--his father's murder--well, that was sensational under any circumstances. And he was out, free and clear, but how many people believed that? The irony of it: folks would probably think that the Barkleys had pulled strings to get him off the hook, perhaps to cover up their own shame, when in truth it was Frank that had done all the work. Like Frank, Heath doubted that Ledyard would be found alive. He doubted he'd ever quite get clear of this murk.

There were wanted posters of Ledyard up even here in Jubilee; he'd seen them back in the office, and he saw a few now, posted prominently by the saloons and the telegraph office. The words wanted, murder, Tho. Barkley, all in screaming bold letters. Reward of five thousand dollars. That was some find motivation. Hell, maybe he should go after Ledyard himself! He needed a job. With Ledyard in hand he could take a little Barkley money without embarrassment...

There was another new poster up in town. Men Wanted. It caught his eye. The last few days he'd been getting increasingly restless. It was getting into summer proper now. He'd have a hard time finding much work. With a grimace he realized it would probably have to be as a harvest hand, picking fruit. Hard, hard work, and not much pay. Not enough to tide him over for the winter.

But this: here was a handsome payday. Fifty dollars for two days' work. Fifty dollars! You could work cows all summer and not make fifty dollars altogether, much less after expenses. Assitant deputies. Well, he could do that. It wasn't until he read the last few lines that his interest turned to disgust. For Stockton and surrounding environs--whatever that meant, but he sure wasn't in any hurry to get back to Stockton. He'd ride around it in the future. And the employer: Coastal and Western. Funny, he thought, I ain't got no stake in this railroad fight and yet it follows me everywhere. Maybe I should just sign up and have done with it.

There was nothing at the post office. Nothing at the telegraph office. A wasted trip, he thought. I can make even a trip to the post office go sour. In that frame of mind he turned around and headed back to the office, still carrying the Men Wanted poster.

Back in the office, he showed it to Frank. "These're all over town today," he said. "You see em?"

Frank looked it over briefly. "Yes, I seen it yesterday."

"What does it mean, assistant deputies?"

"I don't rightly know, Heath." He frowned. "You ain't thinking of signing up, are you?" When he didn't get an answer, his frown deepened, and he growled, "I didn't save you from a rope to see you tote a gun for Coastal and Western."

"I sure could use those fifty dollars," Heath said dryly.

"I'd rather see you eat dirt." His voice softened. "Go on back. See if there's any coffee left. And no more talk about you working for the railroad."

"You letting me make the coffee, Frank?"

"After all these years I hope you finally know how to make coffee. Go on." He had a momentarily twinge; no doubt the company would be a surprise, and unwelcome. But it would be that much harder for Heath to bolt.

But Heath was too resigned to bolt. Something in the very look of the woman--her defiantly white hair, her mannish clothes, her stiff posture--told him bolting wouldn't help; she looked as if she'd ride to Hades if she'd made up her mind to do so. He noticed she'd already poured herself a cup of coffee. Just as well. He didn't feel up to the social niceties, not with her, at least. He poured the dregs out into a cup for himself, and started making up another pot.

She had never gotten a good look at him before. That very first time, when he'd first come to the ranch and she'd experienced a frisson of recognition and foreboding, it had just been his air, his movements that seemed familiar. Later, his features had been too distorted by injury; even his mother would have had difficulty recognizing him then. So now was her first look.

Tom, she thought; did he live long enough to see this young man plain? She hoped so. Had he see himself as clearly as she did? Oh, there were differences, surely. The mouth--the mouth he must have gotten from his mother, and his eyes were more deeply set, more hooded. But the same clear blue as Jarrod's, as Audra's--as Tom's. The nose. And his whole body--stocky, strong, a little caged and uncomfortable indoors but not ungraceful. The letter hadn't actually proved that Tom Barkley had fathered this young man, just that he'd known, and cared for, his mother. The young man himself was proof enough.

But she hadn't ever seen that resigned set to Tom's shoulders, had never seen such blankness in his eyes. Grief? Anger? Yes, those certainly lay behind the careful movements, the downturned mouth. Something more. Disgust, almost.

Victoria was a woman of great determination. She had reached the decision that coming here was the proper course of action, and she had immediately set out on that course. She had been fully confident that the right words or gesture would come to her. Now she hesitated, not sure how best to go on. She tried for lightness. "So I have you to thank for the coffee? It is coffee, isn't it--not kerosene?"

"Frank makes the coffee usually. He likes it real strong."

"Strong is not the word. He should bottle it and settle it as liniment."

Heath shrugged. Frank's coffee had always been a fertile field for jokes, and he himself had run through most of them. Another day, coming from somebody else, it would have raised at least a little smile. Now he just continued with his task.

She tried another tack. "You look much better. You're all well now? No problems?"

"No problems," he said, but did not elaborate.

She hit on the topic that she figured must make even him melt. "Frank Sawyer is quite a man. You're very lucky in your friendship. And he certainly thinks the world of you."

"Does he?" Heath said. He looked up, a little pleased, but then looked down again, his face, if possible, even gloomier. "He's been right good to me. Better'n any one else, I reckon."

"Better than your father." Well, she thought, might as well bring it out into the open. In a gentler tone, she continued, "It must have been very difficult for your mother, bringing up a child all alone. Wasn't there anyone to help her?"

"You leave her alone," he said. His sudden vehemence startled her so much she actually stepped back, spilling the rest of the inky coffee. She forgot to mop it up as he continued, "You leave her alone. You got no call to judge her."

"I'm not judging her," Victoria protested. "Just the opposite. She must have had a very difficult life." She realized her cup was empty. She put it down, brushed away the damp spot on her blouse. She noticed how much he struggled to regain his blank mask. Gently, she said, "So much has happened. It seems to me that we've all forgotten that you've had a terrible loss."

He shrugged again, keeping his back to her. She made him profoundly uncomfortable. Looking at what Leah might have been if life had been kinder. The same small frame, the dark eyes. But this woman was made of stronger stuff. Or had she just been luckier?

"I realize it probably seems insensitive to intrude on you like this. I understand--well, I understand a little--why you wouldn't want to see any of us, or talk to any of us. But, Heath, so much time has been allowed to go by already. It seems wrong to let more go by. And a better moment may not come." Seeing the rigid set to his shoulders, she added, "May I stay? Will you listen?"

He rocked back and forth on his heels. "I don't see what good talking's gonna do," he said. "You thought I was a liar and a murderer. Frankly I thought the same of you."

"That just means we don't know each other. That doesn't mean we couldn't know each other better."

Finally, he said, "Might as well get it over with now."

Groping for some common ground, she bit her lip, then decided to go on. "I was a good bit younger than you when I lost my mother. But I can remember how terrible it was. As if there would never be another safe or peaceful place on the planet. My father--well, he was a good man, but not a practical one, and my mother had a very hard life. No security. Always worried about how the next meal was going to get on the table, how we'd make it through the winter. She wasn't even thirty-five when she died. As I grew older myself I found my grief harder, not easier, to bear. I realized how little she'd had in life. How cheated she'd been."

"It ain't the same," he muttered.

"I'm not saying it is. I'm just trying to make you realize that I understand some of what you're feeling. And I know that what happened in Stockton just makes it all worse." She took a deep breath. "I believe my husband went to meet you that night because he believed you were his son, and because he wanted to acknowledge that."

"A little late," Heath snorted.

"As soon as he could. Heath, don't you realize, he wanted to make things as right as he could. I know you don't want to believe this. But he was a good man, your father. A good man. You weren't in Stockton long enough to realize just how good a man he was. How many other people looked up to him, relied on him. Not just his family."

"I hear tell of the great Tom Barkley." His voice was bitter, but strangely lacking in energy. "I'm sure he was as good to you as you'd want. I'm sure he lived a real fine life. I'm sure lots of folks are sorry he's gone. But all I know of him is what he done to my mother." His bitterness deepened. "All I know of him," he said softly, "is what I see in me."

His bitterness surprised her. To her the whole matter was a tragic misunderstanding. If Tom had known...Of course, if Tom had known everything would have been different. "What is it that you see that you dislike so much?"

He didn't answer directly. He just said, "I was better off not knowin. I wish I'd never come to you. I wish I'd never wanted--"

"Wanted?" she echoed. "You wish you never wanted what? His love? His attention? What exactly did you come looking for?"

"Money," he said bluntly. "A name. I was tired of bein dirt. I saw--I saw how they treated that lawyer one in San Francisco. I ain't never been treated like that in my life. Never. That's what I was coming for. It was mine, I wanted it."

There was such uncertainy in his voice at the end. "But you stopped wanting it."

He was pacing now, slowly, but still careful to keep his eyes away from hers. "I didn't stop wantin it. I just started--" He took a deep breath. "Used to see you all--see you all sittin out back. In the afternoon. I thought..." He bit his lip.

For him this was the worst, the hardest admission. Why was he making it to her? Because he had to say it to someone. "I thought it'd be nice to be there. Belong there. I thought if I had to choose between that and Strawberry--tween that and my mother and me....I'd chosen just the same. I'd chosen just the same." He swallowed, hard. "Choosin that meant my mother had a bad bad time, a short time. Hard work. Bein shamed. But I reckon I'd done what he did. Just being there I was doin what he did."

"You could have been there," she said softly. "He would have wanted you there."

He shook his head slowly. "I don't fit there."

"You don't fit there? Do you think there's some kind of test?" A new realization dawned. "Or are you afraid to be there?"

"I ain't afraid," he said hotly. Just as suddenly, all the heat went out of him. "I just wouldn't fit. It's too late to try." He'd stopped pacing. Finally he turned to her. "Don't you see? What happened to her--what he did--all she did for me, all she lost cause of me--and she ain't cold in the ground before I go runnin after some stranger who didn't do no more for her than he would have done for a stranger. That's what I see of him. That's what I got from him. That's why I don't want no more."

"I see," she said, and she was beginning to. "You still think your father just turned his back on you and left your mother to make her way with an illegitimate child."

"That's what happened," he said. "That's what happened. That's what he did."

She hesitated, then continued, "I don't know why your mother made the choice she did. I'm sure--"

He swung around. "What choice she made? What choice you talkin about? I suppose you think she could have tossed me down a mine shaft. Well, she wasn't--"

"No, no, of course not." Victoria was puzzled. "I meant her choice not to tell Tom." Seeing his surprise, she frowned. Finally, she said, "But you must have read the letter. You must know--or is there something else? Something more than the letter?"

"No," he mumbled. "No, there's nothing else. I didn't--I saw the name. Saw what she was sayin was true. I guessed what he was sayin--that he was puttin her aside. I didn't want to read no more. "

"Heath," she said gently. "If you'd read all of it, you'd realize you were wrong. He didn't know about you. Certainly he was wrong to do as he'd done. But not as wrong as you think."

His surprise was obvious. Then, defensively, "It don't change anything. You don't know what he woulda done." He remembered Strawberry: the shoddy buildings in too-bright paint, the great scars dug out of the hillside, the noise, the ugly faces of drunks and cheats. That big white house, the long clean barns. "He woulda done the same."

"I see. And you think you would have done the same thing."

"I did do the same thing."

She mulled this over, but she was distracted by the Men Wanted poster. She looked it over. "Well," she said. "I see Hannibal Jordan's reach extends all the way out here." She looked at Heath. "Your brothers," and she used the word deliberately, "will be there when Coastal & Western tries to enforce that court order. If he'd lived, your father would have been there too. Even if he couldn't use a rifle, he would have been there. It was a cause he believed in. And he wasn't a man content to just believe a thing. You had to act, too."

Heath shrugged again. "He might do right a hundred ways, and still do wrong by her. It don't prove nothing."

"And you're free to wallow in self-pity because you might do wrong, too. Well, you may have many things to be ashamed of. But you didn't get them from him. No son of Tom Barkley has anything to be ashamed of. Not anything."

She put the poster down. She looked at him squarely, her hands on her hips. "And I do have proof. When we found you in the alley your shirt was bloodstained--the front was soaked with it. Far more than you could have lost yourself. No one could figure out why." She could tell he was impatient. She grabbed his arm, forced him around to face her. "I think I figured out why. That was your father's blood, Heath. I believe he spent his last moments, his last efforts, trying to protect you. I believe you were the last thing he thought of before he died." She let his arm go. "It may have been late, but it was the most he had."

She picked up her hat. "Perhaps someday you'll want to hear more about your father. But I won't waste any more of your time with it today. He was a flawed man, but he was always willing to face up to his mistakes, and he never lacked for courage. Perhaps, Heath, if you are like him, you're not such a bad man, either.

"The things you came looking for--and the things you found--are still there. You have a family if you want it. I hope you do, because that's what your father would have wanted. But it's your decision. If you want to turn your back on that family, if you're afraid to try joining it, that's your decision. Don't blame him for it."

The coffee was finally brewed; there was a rich dark brown smell in the shabby little room. Her throat felt very dry and parched. Tired as if she'd walked here from Stockton. She could have used a cup, but she felt saying anything more was dangerous. She'd accomplished half of her mission: the troubled young man before her was much less of a mystery. He'd come to Stockton wanting money and status. Once there he'd developed a hunger for something much less tangible. No wonder he hadn't shown anyone the letter; it would have seemed crude, as if he were walking up to a bank teller and demanding his deposit. Now he would never get the recognition he craved from his father, and she doubted he would ever return to find out if the regard of his brothers and sister could be recognition enough, to find out if he really did belong in that family party.

Well, she had done her best. She closed the door quietly. She took her leave of Frank Sawyer, and headed back to Stockton, alone.

The injunction had less than a week to run.

Hannibal Jordan was not a happy man. Certainly not as happy as he'd expected to be. Jarrod Barkley's frantic efforts to broker a compromise had failed; the state court had turned him down flat. The injunction would expire, and Jordan had in hand a court order granting ownership and possession of the disputed lands to Coastal & Western. All he had to do now was enforce it.

He shouldn't have had to worry about the enforcement. After all, Tom Barkley was dead, and Jordan assumed the discredited Valley hero had taken much of the farmers' resistance with him to the grave--along with his vaunted reputation for morality and clean-dealing. What a nice bit of work by Ledyard! True, Ledyard hadn't created the situation, but he'd certainly capitalized on it.

Ah, Ledyard. Too bad his cleverness hadn't been more complete. Too bad he'd been caught out. No doubt that, if Ledyard were still around, Jordan wouldn't be nearly as worried about the evictions. Ledyard was a past master at this sort of business: he'd regularly swept prospectors off disputed ground. He knew just the right mixture of terror and intimidation to serve up. And miners, Jordan found, were generally a tougher bunch than farmers. No question that Ledyard could have cleared up this little problem...

Well, Ledyard wouldn't be clearing up any more problems. Nor, coincidentally, would he be telling any tales to any juries. The Barkleys had flooded California with wanted posters, offering $5,000 for a live Ledyard. Jordan had developed a certain fondness for Ledyard, but he wasn't the man to let any sort of feeling endanger him. Ledyard had as much as admitted that he couldn't be relied upon if captured. And what prosecuting attorney wouldn't make a deal, even with the odious James Ledyard, if that deal brought down Hannibal Jordan?

So Jordan had seen to it that a very different sort of offer went out through a more clandestine network. Ledyard alive was a tricky proposition and worth only $5,000, but Ledyard dead was worth a cool $10,000. Money, Jordan chuckled to himself. Money could buy anything. Even a man as clever as Ledyard was worth only so much. Jordan just regretted now that he'd offered so much; even a dollar over five thousand would have been enough.

The details actually made Jordan think a little worse of Ledyard. He hadn't taken horse directly fr Mexico, as many had thought. No, he'd been skulking around the Barbary Coast. Booked on a steamer, waiting for passage to China. No doubt Ledyard figured he'd work his magic amongst the coolies and opium growers of the fractured orient.

Not a bad idea; China was certainly safer than Mexico. But, really! To allow yourself to be outdrawn by a dirty old saddle tramp like--what was the name? Random, yes, that was it--to be outdrawn by a dirty old man with nothing but a mule and a beautiful, letal long-barreled Colt. Disappointing. Of course Random claimed it was a fair fight, that Ledyard had drawn on him over a poker dispute. Perhaps. Perhaps this Random really could outdraw Ledyard. But Jordan thought the story was a lie; his source in the sheriff's office indicated that Ledyard had been shot in the back in an alley.

But the details hardly mattered. Random had earned his $10,000, though Jordan had hated admitting the old saddle tramp into the house for the payoff--the man looked as if a full days' soaking wouldn't be enough to rid him of years of accumulated dirt and black powder. The irony was that this disreputable old man--for anyone who'd heard about Jordan's bounty offer had to be disreputable--would be a hero when the story broke in the next day's papers.

Well, it was a good feeling to know that Ledyard was well past making any trouble for his erstwhile employer. But his absence was a damned inconvenience just the same. Jordan had taken his advice and taken on Wallent. Wallent had a reputation for recklessness in action. That didn't bother Jordan a bit. If he took 100 percent casualties but got the job done, what of it?

But, Jordan thought angrily, Wallent was damned careful about keeping a low profile. He insisted that his name never be mentioned, insisted that the men never saw him or knew of him. Wallent claimed he could organize the operation in private, that he had a sufficiently trusty lieutenant to carry out his orders.

Perhaps he did. But the name Wallent would have been damned valuable. They were finding it hard to recruit men, despite the handsome offer of $50 for two days' work. At that rate Jordan had expected to recruit a small army, up to two hundred men. But the murder of Tom Barkley, the widespread opinion that the murder had been orchestrated for the benefit of Coastal & Western, greatly impeded recruiting efforts. And of course it was a good year; jobs were plentiful, wages high. Not so high as this; but high enough that men could pass up the opportunity of earning a good payday in such a disreputable way.

Oh, they got recruits, of course. But of doubtful quality. Drunks and ne-er-do-wells; stubborn pocket miners, hoping to get just enough to keep on digging til they hit the motherlode; former convicts. And men with scores to settle against the Barkleys.

That was disappointing. Jordan had the sense that more than a few had had their fill of the Barkleys and their preeminence. That more than a few were enjoying the Barkleys' fall from grace. If only he could figure out how to harness those feelings, find those men and use them. So far Wallent hadn't had much success. Wallent himself would have been a worthy substitute, a general with a reputation for splashy successes and generous treatment of the ranks. But Wallent wouldn't fill that role, damn him.

Still, Jordan told himself, it would go well. Recruiting had been a disappointment, but there were still a few days left. In any case they would have a force of seventy at least. And there was still a chance that the farmers would put up no resistance at all. All of Jarrod Barkley's scurrying about told Jordan that the Valley had little appetite left for a fight. Seventy men should be enough. More than enough.

If possible, Heath was even quieter and more withdrawn after Victoria Barkley's visit. Frank watched him with a deepened concern. How much lower could the boy go, and how much longer could this go on? He woke one morning with the determination that he had to try and talk some sense into the youngster, and it had to be today.

He was surprised to find Heath packing. "You leaving town?" Frank asked.

"I reckon," Heath said.

"Well, nice of you to let me in on your plans."

Heath shrugged. "I been thinkin of goin, but I just made up my mind today."

"At least I don't have to worry about you catchin up with Ledyard somewheres."

That brought a spark of interest. "They caught him, then?"

"In a manner of speakin. He was killed over a poker game in Frisco."

Killed. Heath knew what that meant: there would never be a trial, there would never be a confession by Ledyard. The cloud would always hang over him: maybe he was a murderer--his father's murderer. With Ledyard gone he could never absolutely prove otherwise.

Frank let that sink in before asking, "Where you headed, then?"

"San Francisco."

"Why there? Why not stay here, son? I can't use you, but there's other work about. You've swung an ax before, ain't you? And there's still mining up in the hills. Surface mining, you wouldn't have to go underground."

Heath made a face. "Even above ground I don't want to do it if I don't have to. I'm just in the mood to move on, Frank. I'll find some kind of work in Frisco."

Frank watched in silence for a few moments. Then, he said, "You plannin on stoppin in Stockton on the way?"

That made Heath pause. Then, he resumed packing with a greater intensity. "No, I ain't."

"Heath," Frank said, "I don't know what you talked about with Mrs. Barkley the other day. But I don't think she rode all this way to give you the heave-ho. Whyn't stop in there? Whyn't give those folks a chance?"

"I gave em a chance, Frank."

"Well, things went badly, I know, but it wasn't mostly their fault, Heath. Mostly you just got tangled in the railroad business. Seems to me they've tried real hard to make up with you."

Heath just shrugged.

"You know," Frank said quietly, "you went to them. You went there lookin for something. Seems to me they're offering it. Heath," Frank added, "you been roamin a long time. You ain't stopped anywhere for long, as far as I can see. You can't roam forever. Why not give it a try with them?"

Heath shrugged again.

Less patiently, Frank said, "Son, I know you can hold a grudge. But I think you're wrong in this. They're the only kin you got now, son. I think you'd set a higher value on that."

Heath looked around to be sure he hadn't forgotten anything. "It ain't a grudge, Frank. Not any more. But--but I just don't want to, Frank. Maybe they're fine people. But not my sort. I don't belong with them, Frank." He thought briefly of the big white house. The pretty family grouping on the back porch. Did they still sit out there, now that the old man was gone? The space left by the old man wasn't one he could fill.

Frank didn't have an answer to that. He hadn't seen the house but he'd seen enough of the family to know they lived a big cut above anything Heath was used to. Understandable that the boy wouldn't be comfortable. A shame. If the boy had needed steadying three years ago, he needed it even more now. He certainly wouldn't find it in Frisco. But perhaps Heath was right; perhaps he wouldn't find it in Stockton, either.

The Men Wanted poster was on the bed. Frank picked it up. "You ain't planning on gettin mixed up in this business, are you?"

"I said I wan't going to Stockton, Frank."

"You said earlier you could use that fifty dollars."

"I could. But it ain't my fight, Frank. Even though I nearly got myself killed because of it." His mouth twisted; it might almost have been a grin. "So I suppose you could say the railroad owes me. But it's not my fight." Your brothers will be there. Well, fine for them. I won't be.

"Good," Frank said. "However mad you might be--well, you'd hate yourself a lot worse if you threw in with them railroad fellas."

"I ain't mad no more, Frank," Heath said slowly.

From his tone, Frank thought he was telling the truth; the anger seemed burnt out. Somehow that was more worrisome. "Don't be such a stranger," Frank said gruffly. "Send a word when you're settled somewhere."

Heath nodded, and left.

Was it just coincidence, the result of getting a late start and making a wrong turn, or had he somehow deliberately ended up this close to Stockton, this close to dark?

Truth was, he'd dawdled. Heath had never spent any time in this part of the state, though he'd worked both north and south. He'd grown up in sight of the magnificent forests and cold, clear streams of the Sierra Nevada. He loved the hot dusty plains of the south and of Mexico. But the country around here had its own charm. Nearly as flat as a pancake, so that on a clear day like today you could see the blue smudge of the coastal range, a good twenty miles away, on the horizon. It was high summer now, and a good one, neither too wet nor too dry, and the generous earth had responded bounteously. In most places the road was bounded on either side by neat rows of crops or fruit trees; here and there you could see the glint of water in well-tended canals. Even the wild grasses looked ripe and soft, and the air was full of the good smell of growing things.

Dull in its way, compared to the majesty of the mountains or the vast golden bowl of the Sonora. He had been a roamer most of his life, and all the charm in this country was in settledness and solidity. But there was a quiet, a contentment to this land that even a vagabond could appreciate. No wonder the railroad wanted it. No wonder those farmers thought it was worth dying over. Whatever price the railroad was asking this land was probably worth it, and more. More than any place he'd ever seen, this seemed the sort of place where a man came to rest, came to stay, put down roots. Hard to believe there hadn't been an acre of cultivated land around here not even thirty years ago. Hard to believe all this could be built in the span of just one life. You'd have thought those canals, those ripe fields, those tidy little outbuildings, had been here forever.

He looked over these fields with a mingled envy and regret. Some of this might have been yours. Ain't that what you came for? Moving slowly along the country roads, he had never been more puzzled by his own actions, his own feelings. Each step that he'd taken had seemed the right one at the time, each one had had its own explanation. Yet looking back over the last weeks, he could not quite understand the whole of his actions.

Most of his life had been consumed in a struggle to prove something, define himself. He could not settle in a place because he could not settle in a role, and he could not still the angry, self-defeating voice that had followed him out of Strawberry, the voice that told him that each new incarnation was doomed to fail. Doomed to fail because he never had quite enough material to finish the job. He might be a fine deputy sheriff; he might be the best bronc rider in Hermosillo; he might be the best poker player on the Barbary Coast. None of these things quite added up to a whole man. He thought the missing father was the missing ingredient: he cold not quite complete himself because he had no model to follow.

Looking over these well-loved fields Heath decided it was a whole world that was missing. Perhaps he hadn't been able to do it alone because it wasn't something that could be done alone. There had been little to leave in Strawberry, and his mother had been too fragile to confront the depth of his anger. No, what had been missing was not just a place and not just an idea but both of those things, and more: an idea of the man he wanted to be, a place to make that man, a net of friendship and sympathy and responsibility. So that each failure did not seem like a tumble into an abyss.

He had the sad sense that this could have been the place. That those people--those people on the back porch could have been the ones that could have given him support and stability. The woman especially; so much like Leah but with a strength Leah had never had. This could have been the place.

Yet he had turned away from it. He had come here determined to take what he could. But when it had been offered--offered! However grudgingly, it had been offered--he'd turned away. Too late, he told himself. Just too late. Too many losses already, losses that built up a poison in the system, a poison that tainted everything with the stink of past failures and hinted at the failures to come.

Or are you afraid? He heard her voice clearly. I ain't afraid, he'd thought. But he knew now that he had been afraid. Afraid to fail again, knowing this would be the last one, the worst failure of all, one that even his own stubbornness could not overcome. Yes, he'd been awed by the grandeur of the house, the fancy manners of those who lived within, anticipating their contempt. Funny thing was, he thought, he'd earned that without even making a decent try with them. When Victoria Barkley had left Jubilee she surely knew he was afraid, and knew that any excuse he could have made up for turning away from his father's family would be just that--an excuse. Not a real reason, not a way to honor his mother, but just an excuse.

Happy, then? he thought wearily. Frank might've proved you ain't a murderer, but you proved to yourself you're just as weak and empty as you thought.

The sun was sinking fast now, deepening the distant coastal range into purple, throwing a red cast over the ripening fields. Close to dark, and he was a good ways from anywhere but Stockton. He could bed down somewhere around here, but he still needed a meal, and a drink. He hesitated for a long moment. Then, he figured, the town would be busting with all those assistant deputies: tomorrow was the deadline for the railroad business. With all those strangers in town no one would notice him. No one could get the idea he was skulking around town, feeling sorry for himself. His chin came up. Just a drink and a meal, then he'd be on his way. For good. He did his best to shake off the melancholy air and aimed the Gal for Stockton.

There was a strange air in town. Most of the legitimate businesses were closed up tighter than a drum. But all the bars were open, and there were dubious-looking men, in various stages of drunken rowdiness, stumbling from one set of swinging doors to the next. Heath picked the one that was most crowded, and headed in.

In the crowd no one recognized him. Well, not surprising. Most of the time he'd spent in this town he'd spent in jail. Lots of folks might know of him, but few knew him. He had his meal and his drink, and then a few other drinks on top, just to round out the evening. A few drunken card games were in progress. He thought briefly about joining in; some of those fellas were pretty far gone, and skinning them would be child's play. But a foreboding came over him. The last time he'd played cards in this town he'd set in motion a plot that had killed Tom Barkley and nearly killed him, too. Best leave the pidgeons alone.

He stepped out of the bar into the still night air. There was something electric in the air; he felt the hair rise on his neck. Nonsense. He turned toward the livery stable when he heard steps behind him. They accelerated quickly, and before he could even turn around his Colt was gone from his holster.

"Don't mean no harm, mister," a voice said, "but there's someone'd like to speak with you. If you'll just come along quietly there'll be no trouble at all. And he'll make it worth your while."

Heath shrugged and kept walking. With a gun at this back, he wasn't in the mood for any heroics. What kind of a friend sent out invitations at gunpoint?

They walked to the end of the sidewalk, and down a lane. Finally a small cabin, nearly hidden in the brush, was visible. "Go on in," the voice said.

The cabin was dark. Heath blinked once or twice, trying to accustom himself to the darkness. He knew he wasn't alone, but all he could see of his companion were a pair of scarred but well-tended cavalry boots. The voice attached to the cavalry boots said, "Well, Mr. Barkley, it is a pleasure. It is Mr. Barkley, isn't it?" There was a hint of irony in the well-modulated voice.

"Who are you?" Heath said. "And what do you want with me, anyway?"

"I want to help you, Mr. Barkley. Or rather, I have a friend that would like to help you, and I'm the means. Tell me, Mr. Barkley, what are you doing back in Stockton?"

"Just passing through."

"Just passing through. How interesting. Your just passing through doesn't have anything to do with the injunction expiring?"

"The what?"

"Please don't play innocent, Mr. Barkley. I'm sure you, and virtually everyone else in the state, know that the farmers will be ejected from railroad property tomorrow, beginning at eight a.m. at the Semple place. Your sudden reappearance in town surely can't be a coincidence."

"It surely can," Heath said dryly. "I don't have a dog in that fight."

"Oh, don't you?" There was a little chuckle. "Mr. Barkley, you're a man in desperate need of friends. I'm here on behalf of a man who'd like to be your friend."

Briefly Heath wondered if the friend could be one of the Barkleys, trying to keep him out of town. But somehow he doubted it. This clandestine approach didn't seem right. "I don't need any friends."

"You most certainly do, my good young man. Have you heard that James Ledyard is dead?"

"I heard."

"Then you surely realize that your legal position has become very tenuous indeed. Very uncertain."

"They indicted Ledyard."

"But Ledyard didn't live to tell the tale. Tell me, Barkley, do you really think that so-called family of yours will be satisfied to let Tom Barkley's death go unavenged? Just how long do you think it will be before the family decides that you should pay for that death? Don't mention your innocence, boy. Don't you think folks like the Barkleys could get you convicted and hanged, even if you're as innocent as Jesus?"

"They wouldn't," Heath said. Even to his own ears his voice sounded uncertain.

"My boy, they certainly would. You'll be under a cloud for the rest of your life. Folks will always wonder if you're a murderer or not. That's why you need friends. My friend is prepared to see that you're adequately protected, and more than adequately compensated. With enough money you could get yourself well beyond the reach of even the Barkleys."

Through clenched teeth, Heath said, "I ain't for sale."

There was a burst of rich, real laughter. "Oh, boy, of course your are. Everyone's for sale. It's just a matter of finding the right price. Apparently your price can't be measured in dollars and cents. Well, fine. Money isn't the only thing I have to offer you.

"I suppose you can guess who my friend is. Do you realize, Barkley, how many people there are in this valley with a grudge against Tom Barkley? How many other people, besides you, were injured by that man's arrogance? They're just waiting for someone to lead them. You could be that someone. Think of it, Barkley: you could be a man other men look to. A man other men fear."

Heath said nothing.

"Tomorrow at Semple's place, and then the others. We have the law on our side, Barkley. What we're trying to do is completely legal, and right. Those farmers are no better than thieves. I have the idea you're not a man who appreciates a thief...a man who takes from others, a man who keeps what isn't his. All you need to do is show up at Semple's place tomorrow morning, eight a.m. It's the first place west of town. You won't have any trouble. You be there tomorrow morning, Barkley, and you'll leave a different man. A respected man. A feared man. The man you could have been if your father had done right by you."

"It's not my fight," Heath said again.

"Oh, it's your fight. But more than that, Barkley--it's your opportunity. You won't get another one like it. And of course there will be, as I said, adequate compensation. Oh, I know you're not for sale. But the money will be there, too. Semple's place at eight a.m. You be there."

There was a long silence. Finally, Heath said, "Can I go now?"

"Of course." A chuckle. "You should get some rest. My friend here will escort you back to town. Your weapon will be returned there. And, Mr. Barkley, I don't think you'll want to try any heroics--say, fetching the sheriff. Remember how tainted you already are. I'm sure you realize you'd best keep this little meeting between ourselves."

"I realize," Heath admitted.

"Semple's at eight a.m. You'll find the world looks very different from the top than it does from the bottom. Be there."

When Heath was gone, the man struck a match, lit an oil lamp. A few minutes later, the man who'd escorted Heath to and from the house returned. "Was that a good idea, General? Lettin him go like that?"

"Of course. He won't do anything foolish."

"But if he don't show up tomorrow..."

"He'll show up tomorrow. In the meantime, he won't go for the sheriff or try to warn anyone. In any case, what would he tell them? But he's smart enough to know how bad it would look for him. He'll show up tomorrow."

"On our side?"

"I think so. But it doesn't really matter. Either he shows up, and he's on our side, all the better for us. Or he shows up, on the other side, and he gets killed with the other Barkleys, also good for us." Wallent poured a generous measure of whiskey, raised it in a salute. "Either way, it's good for us."

The walk back to town was endless, nightmarish. Heath, convinced his life was going to end any second with a shot in the back, found his senses heightened and distorted. Branches crackling underfoot sounded more like cannons. A ghost horse moved through the trees, just at the edge of his vision.

But the walk ended suddenly and without violence. The Colt found its way back into his holster, his escort melted into the shadows. Heath stood rooted for a few moments. When he decided he was really alone, he headed for the livery stable, his knees still a little watery.

He fetched the Gal and headed straight out of town. He wasn't spending another night in this God-forsaken town. Bad things happened to him there. He found a good billet by the river and camped.

But he couldn't sleep. He wondered who Jordan--he had no doubt Jordan was behind all this--had found to lead his little adventure tomorrow. Judging from the boots he'd found himself a real military man. Judging from the behavior he'd seen in town, it would probably take a good dose of military discipline to turn those rowdies into an effective force. Of course, if you had enough rowdies--and you were facing a small enough group--it wouldn't matter. Especially if they were rowdies out for some kind of vengeance, looking, as that man had hinted, to take revenge on the Barkleys. No, he thought, discipline or no, I don't think it will be much of a fight. Coastal & Western will have that property cleared by sundown.

And him? It occurred to him, with even greater force than before, that he'd never really be cleared. He'd spend the rest of his life as a man who might be a murderer. No, not just might be. Time would embellish the tale; his guilt would grow more certain with greater time and distance. It would be far worse than just being someone's bastard son. And with Ledyard dead there was no fixing it.

The ground underneath him was too soft, too marshy to be comfortable. Perhaps he wouldn't have slept in any case. Too many heavy thoughts in the day, too strange an encounter in the night. He lay, wide-eyed, starting every now and then at an owl hoot, listening to the constant tumble of water over rock. And somewhere in that long night it came to him that there was still one path open to him, one way to clear himself, one way to prove his innocence.

Nick and Jarrod reached the Semple place just after dawn. A few hands, mostly young and mostly the sort looking for any kind of fight, were with them. But Nick had made it clear that showing up at Semple's place wasn't a condition of employment--and most had had the sense to stay away. Those hands that had been in the Valley the year before remembered Apple Hill and its bloody results. This figured to be worse.

Most of the farmers had made the difficult decision to fight. Even if they had been able to swallow their gorge and buy back land they owned, most of them couldn't afford it outright. And they weren't willing to take the railroad's mortgage offer, on the grounds that the railroad had reneged on them once, the railroad would do it again. The departure of Malachi Crown, combined with the evidence that Tom Barkley had been deliberately murdered, indicated that Hannibal Jordan was operating in a new way, without any check, without any concern for public image. Any hope of decency or fair dealing was long since over.

Jarrod understood this and sympathized. And here he was, right alongside the farmers, right alongside his brother. In the end he'd come around to Nick's way of thinking, that the fight was the only option. Yet it sickened and disgusted him. Looking around at his fellow defenders, they were men he'd known all his life. Good men, honest men--but not much in the way of fighters. Before nine o'clock this morning they might all be dead. Nick, too. Should they both be here? Wouldn't it be too much for Mother and Audra, to lose both of them so soon after Father? But which of they could not be here?

Nick knew the odds, but he felt exhilarated. For weeks, now, it seemed, he'd been spoiling for a fight, but with no acceptable target. Now he finally had one. He would have preferred a good old-fashioned brawl, subduing some opponent with his fists and his will. But this would do. Anticipation brought a glitter to his dark eyes, a wry half-smile to his lips. He never looked at his watch. Eight o'clock couldn't come soon enough.

Semple's property wasn't fenced, though the boundary was marked by two posts about fifty yards down the drive from the house. The defenders were scattered around the front property, mostly sheltering behind the barns and the fences. The ground here was very flat, the road straight, so you could look from Semple's porch and see the road right down into Stockton less than two miles away. A fine few of the advancing railroad gunmen....

At seven-thirty the riders began to file down the road. They were moving somewhat slowly, in no particular order. But they kept coming. Ten, twenty, thirty...Jarrod lost count.

Harry Lyman was at the head of the group. He stopped at the posts, dismounted, and walked up to the porch. To Jarrod, he said, "There's still time to call this off."

"We ain't callin nothing off," Nick snarled. "You call off those hired gunmen."

"They're not hired gunmen, they're duly sworn deputies, and that fella has a court order."

"I'm disappointed to see you with them, Harry," Jarrod said.

"I ain't got a choice, Jarrod. You may not like it, but the law's on their side. I don't like the way they're doing it, but it ain't illegal. What you're doing is."

"Illegal!" Nick snorted. "That court order was handed down by the most corrupt judge in the state."

"That may be, Nick, but it's not my place to judge--or yours, for that matter. Jarrod, please stop this. There will be at least fifty men here--maybe as many as seventy. You'll all be killed. You can't win."

"Perhaps we can't win," Jarrod said, "but we can't not fight, either. I'm sorry, Harry."

"I'm sorry, too," Harry said. "A lot of good men are going to die today. You have until eight o'clock to change your minds. After that I can't stop them."

"You wouldn't stop them if you could," Nick said.

"You're wrong, Nick, you're wrong." He looked over the group of nervous, familiar faces. "I'm sorry," he whispered. And then he went back to join the growing crowd of men from Stockton.

At perhaps ten minutes before eight, all of the hired guns seemed to have come up, though they stayed mounted and bunched up at the end of the property. One man was riding through the tightly-packed throng, trying to get them spread out and positioned, but there appeared to be little interest in organizing. Most of the men were grinning; they could see how few men there were defending this place, and they figured it would be easy pickins. They'd be back in Stockton drinking before lunch time.

One last rider was approaching from Stockton. Nick, who never forgot a horse, hadn't forgotten this one, either. That short-legged Indian pony was capable of moving right smart, but she was just trotting. A hissing whisper ran through the hired guns; they parted to allow the pony through. At the edge of the Semple property, at the end of the hired guns, the pony halted, and her rider slid off. He pulled a rifle from his scabbard.

He stood there for a long moment, rifle in one hand, reins in the other. On the porch Jarrod and Nick exchanged glances of surprise and dismay. This was one turn of events neither had expected, though it gave Nick a certain grim satisfaction to see the bad apple go bad at last.

But then, slowly, nonchalantly, Heath walked away from the hired guns. He crossed the no-man's-land between the hired guns and the defenders as if it were no more menacing than a city street, and walked around back to tie up his horse.

Nick was scowling. What arrogance! What theatricality! It was a scene out of some damned dime novel. He loved it. He was scowling to hide a grin.

When Heath finally got up to the porch, next to Nick, Nick growled, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Despite the growling tone, Heath realized there was no hostility in Nick's voice. "Same thing you're doin, I reckon."

A silence fell over both groups of men. Jarrod had had his watch open, watching the seconds melt away. Now he closed it. In the unnatural silence that click reverberated.

Jarrod said quietly, "It's eight o'clock."